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  He took several steps inside before he saw her, sitting comfortably on the soft chair, her feet folded under her. She looked relaxed, he thought, but that was fast disappearing before his eyes.

  She began to get up. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “No, please. Stay.” He motioned her to sit back down. “I’m sorry, Graham did say you spend your evenings here.” He didn’t tell her that he had been inquiring about her these past days, weeks now, concerned that she might not feel comfortable in what should be her home. Nor did she know that the only reason he hadn't come in here since she had come to live in this house was that he himself had been unable to relax, to accept what he had done. To accept her. That the evening before was the first time he’d felt confident that at least the outwardly visible part of their arrangement might be what he had wanted, even though she herself was far more than he had bargained for. That he was finally able to let go, just a bit, and to come to this place that was, for him, his favorite room in his home.

  That he had completely forgotten she might be here.

  “It’s peaceful here,” she said. She was hesitant, and he realized this was the first time they had been together in the same place beside the instances mandated by their arrangement.

  “It is,” he said. “I had it designed like the old libraries, I saw one in an English mansion on one of my visits there and couldn’t get it out of my mind. I also like to read here. To work here, sometimes.” He wanted, needed, to make her feel at ease. “Do you mind if I stay?” he asked.

  She was taken aback by the question, by the fact that he even asked. She tilted her head slightly, in that way he was learning was hers, contemplating him. Finally, she shook her head.

  He walked deeper into the library and she heard him go up the narrow steps. A few moments later he came back and sat down, choosing one end of the sofa, the one farthest from her. She watched him for a bit and then returned to her tablet, and he could now raise his head, watch her freely. Even though she had chosen to stay, she was quite obviously aware of his presence there. She was all about wariness, and not at all about trust.

  He lowered his gaze back to his book.

  The next evening she found herself unsure whether she should go to the library. He was in the house, but while they’d had all of the day’s meals together, they’d spent the entire day apart, and after dinner he’d withdrawn to his den once again. Finally she decided to go, needed that quiet corner, and ended up spending the evening there alone.

  She wondered why.

  The evening after that he was there when she came in, sitting in the same place he had sat in two evenings before, on the sofa, reading some papers. He had a glass of red wine beside him. She hesitated for only a brief moment, then came to sit in what she was already coming to think of as her chair. A moment later he got up and walked to the liquor cabinet in the corner, where he had a bottle of red wine open. He poured another glass of wine, came over to her and put it on the table beside her. Then he switched on the lamp, moving it to throw some light on the book she was reading this time in the dim lighting of the room, and returned to sit, saying nothing. When she raised her head to glance at him, he was already engrossed in his work.

  It became a reprieve. Somehow, as the days went by, becoming weeks, their time together in the library became a reprieve. From this situation they were in, from their being complete strangers locked in an arrangement that provided strict rules designed to do just that, keep them safely apart, safely from each other. Outside the library were expectations. What the circumstances in which they had come to live together expected, what the rules their contract had set expected, what the world outside expected.

  In here it was just them.

  It became increasingly easier until it was finally comfortable for them to be there together, to sit in peaceful silence that evolved into a companionship of sorts, and eventually to talk. To ask how the day was, and to answer without reservation. To offer a glass of wine, and to accept. To check if the other was in the library, when they were both in the house, and if not to see why, and to invite. To suggest, discuss, debate a book. He saw her interest and taught her about the paintings he had chosen to collect, those he had scattered around the house and those he had designated specifically for the library.

  “I read about them,” she said one evening.

  “Why?” He was curious.

  “Some of them, when I look at them, they’re a bit like books, aren’t they? You can lose yourself in them.”

  That, he marveled, was precisely why he had bought them. Apart from their being valuable assets, of course.

  “So I looked them up,” she said. “To understand them better.”

  “Some things are meant to be experienced, not just read about,” he said and motioned her to join him beside a painting that hung not far from them, which she did, no longer hesitating.

  That evening he taught her to look at that painting, and then at another, and gradually, as the days went by, at them all, showing her how the way she looked at them could open her mind to a painting’s heart, and how to recognize the differences between painters and styles. He then taught her about the wines he’d been placing by her side and choosing for their dinners, showing her his preferences among them and learning hers. He spoke of cuisines, having seen her appreciation of the nuances of food, and took her to places he thought she might enjoy. But unlike the various social functions they went to or instances when their dinner was with a business associate of his, these times they went out together were for her, and he invariably had a table set out for them in privacy and took care to heed no one and nothing around them, nothing but his time with her.

  Her favorite place was an Italian restaurant called Antonio Torelli III, and so that’s where he took her when he felt, thought he could recognize, that she was quieter, more withdrawn than usual. The restaurant offered a unique mix of old world and new world food by a chef who had never let go of his roots, and who had worked hard to revive a restaurant by a similar name that his grandfather had opened in Italy, and that his father had dreamed of opening again when the family had moved to the United States when he himself had been a child, but had never succeeded in doing so. Ian had chanced upon the place in its previous, shabby form several years earlier, and had gone in when he had seen from outside the three generations of Torellis working cheerily in the tiny open kitchen of the full restaurant. He ended up investing in it, the only restaurant he had ever invested in, and it was now a franchise of both luxury and family-frequented outlets. This allowed Antonio Torelli III himself to still be doing what he loved most, cook, in his favorite restaurant, the one they frequented.

  He enjoyed this, giving her experiences he had no doubt she had never had before, constantly surprising her with yet something new. She was endlessly curious. And honest—nothing in her was assumed, nothing artificial, meant only to impress. There was simply no pretense in her. And for precious moments, though too few, she seemed to forget herself and simply let go, enjoy herself, the experience, with him. He found he craved these moments.

  He wondered if she knew she was changing him.

  Or that she was changing, too.

  After Tess’s first appearance in public, the invitations flowed in, with Ian choosing what to go to and what to disregard at this time when he needed to show his marriage outwardly but didn’t want to overdo it in a way that would be too taxing for his wife, who was unfailingly there whenever he asked her to be. With time the flow of events tapered to a manageable stream, as the world he was a part of got to know, and accepted, his wife.

  They always attended together, and he never ventured far away. The functions, the parties, the various events became easier as Tess gained experience and confidence. Keeping up the front she and her husband were putting up became easier, too. But then he wasn’t a stranger anymore, this man she was getting to know, and who was nothing like she had thought he would be, especially in the privacy of his home or among the people he c
ared about, the rare few he considered his friends.

  Or with her. Even though she no longer flinched at his touch, he never did more than place his hand on her back or lightly hold hers, and only in public. And as she got to know him, his body language, his own subtle reactions to her, she stopped being on guard, stopped expecting him to do more.

  Their arrangement was still being strictly adhered to in every way but one—they were getting to know each other far more than was mandated by the contract they had signed. Nevertheless, it still afforded them both a sanctuary they needed from each other, keeping them within a comfort zone they were both still content to remain in.

  Even now no one but the select few who had known from the beginning knew the truth, still only Robert and Muriel, now friends to both Blackwells, and Lina and Graham, the former having liked Mrs. Blackwell from the very beginning and the latter no longer trying not to, as he got to know her better, and as he saw a change he never thought he would in Mr. Blackwell. And Jackson, who was fiercely protective of the kind, quiet woman he felt responsible for whenever she was outside the house and in his care, since, it seemed to him, too many were trying to get to her.

  As the weeks, then month, then another went by, the rumors waned, as did the type of attention that had originally led Ian to decide on the arrangement that was now their life together, but apart. Once again he faced—for the most part—only the attention he’d been used to before, that which he had learned to accept. There was no longer vicious gossip, him leading a seemingly stable married life ended all but the more persistent speculations, those he had expected to remain.

  Even the lack of obvious affection between him and his wife worked out. At first enough people chalked it up to the new couple getting used to being together in public, not least of all Tess Blackwell who was new to them, to the life her husband had brought her into. And by the time the absence of closeness might have become too obvious, they were comfortable enough with each other for that to show, and the rest was perceived as being the need, which everyone knew about Ian Blackwell and had learned was also an inclination of his wife, to keep their personal life private.

  And after their curiosity found nothing but a hard-working young woman who seemed to have met Ian Blackwell in a company he had eventually bought, without anyone being able to ascertain exactly when they had met, all those who had questions about Tess Blackwell left them behind and focused on trailing the couple when they ventured outside their exclusive estate, as was the case for every other rich and famous—and settled down—couple.

  All but Cecilia Heart. The humiliation still stung. One minute the handsome, wealthy bachelor had rocketed to the top of what used to be her Pounce-For Bachelors list, bringing him unwanted attention but her an unlimited source of air and online time—and fame, and the next, without warning, she had to hear from everyone else that he was married, off the market and beyond her reach. She was the only one who still never received any press releases or advanced notices from Ian Blackwell Holdings’ public relations department, and the only one who still never had any of her questions answered by it. No one would speak to her about Ian Blackwell or about his wife, not even her peers, who feared they too would be left out of the loop and denied all information related to them.

  She had lost all her morning show appearances because of this, no late night shows ever called her again, and the magazine she had written for had made it clear it didn’t want to hear from her again. She had lost all the readers of her blog, and the same people who had once followed her on social media now turned on her, leering at her shame. She was livid, and she was out for a vengeance. She was determined to prove that the marriage was a lie, and if on the way she could put Ian Blackwell’s wife down, why not. The problem was that she didn’t have a chance to do so. She could get nowhere near the woman and could find nothing about her that stuck. Her past was solid, her behavior was untainted, and she was well accepted and widely liked. She was gorgeous, intelligent, kind.

  Cecilia Heart hated her.

  Chapter Ten

  Jeremy Alster was delaying. The extended delay had already brought him to the point of no return, Ian knew. The subsidiaries he had that were still viable were no longer getting new contracts, since customers and suppliers alike were aware of Alster Industries’ uncertain future, and the company’s already meager resources were now all but depleted. Yet he was still delaying.

  And the vultures were circling. Most of the offers to buy the company were still on the table, but time had done its part and the other contenders for it were impatient. Talks of a hostile takeover, the kind that would end up crushing the company into a pulp, now prevailed, with everyone waiting to see who would be the first to make a move.

  That was something Ian couldn’t allow. He wasn’t about to let what he wanted from Alster Industries fall into anyone else’s hands. Which meant that he himself would have to make the move. He was stronger than the others, certainly stronger than Alster Industries, and could easily take over the company despite Alster’s objection and do with it as he pleased. He had done that enough times before.

  The problem was that doing this and still sticking to the plan he had originally offered Jeremy Alster would cost more than he was prepared to invest in the failing company, in terms of both time and resources. No, in such a case it would make better business sense to forgo that plan and to simply tear Alster Industries apart. Not what he had originally intended to do, but he would never allow any risk to his own company, his own employees. His first responsibility was to them.

  It looked like that would have to be his course of action, and the sooner the better. In the time that had passed, IBH Pythia Vision and what was now its subsidiary, IBH InSyn, had begun to work toward his intended goal for them, and he needed the Alster Industries subsidiary without further delay. Time was of an essence.

  He wanted something, and he would get it. But that didn't mean he had to like the way he would go about doing it.

  He was at Pythia Vision now, in its offices in Blackwell Tower, to hear about its progress in its work with InSyn—pending the assessment report about InSyn itself due later in the week—and any remaining issues that needed to be solved. He had thought he would finish here earlier, but he had asked the Overarching Projects Integration Team for operational assessments and financial estimates that would take into account the assimilation into Pythia Vision of the third component of the venture, the patents and the development team of the Alster subsidiary he intended to have soon, and he would only make it back home to Woodside later in the night.

  Mrs. Blackwell, he thought, would have to go by herself to the opening of the new gallery, here in San Francisco. He didn’t even consider suggesting otherwise. By now she was certainly able to face an evening out without him. She was a natural, and no reporter or photographer ever managed to perturb her. She simply gave them her attention, if she wanted to, or disregarded them, where that was called for, but even then she managed not to offend them, and to gain a favorable word.

  No, he wasn’t at all concerned. And she wanted to go. She enjoyed art and loved paintings, and that evening’s opening featured young, up-and-coming artists. New worlds, she called them.

  He smiled to himself, his thoughts on her, even as the head of the team that was making sure all of Pythia Vision’s projects were in synchrony was explaining what was to be expected once the piece of the puzzle Jeremy Alster still had in his hands would be where Ian intended it to be.

  Tess was enjoying herself. The works were very good. The curator had chosen to intermix the different artists’ paintings instead of giving them each a corner of the gallery, hoping to expose the visitors to all of them equally. At the same time, he had organized the intensity and the themes to create an atmosphere that changed smoothly through the gallery’s two levels.

  She was sorry her husband wasn’t here. He had taught her how to look at art, how to have a feel for what she looked at in a way that enhanced her appreciation of
it. She wished he could enjoy the exhibition with her. Standing before the paintings, she could imagine the two of them commenting, discussing, arguing even. There would be people around them, but he would pay no attention to them. When he was with her in the moments that were theirs, he seemed to be just that, with her.

  With her thoughts on what she had seen, what had caught her eye most among the paintings, she descended the stairs to the gallery’s lower level with a graceful step, smiling at a couple who passed by and looked at her with awed curiosity. She didn’t mind it, didn’t mind the people, the nice ones, and by now she was used to being recognized. And so far she’d enjoyed the opening undisturbed by the presence of anyone in any kind of media, since none of them were allowed into the gallery that night.

  But when she had almost reached the bottom of the stairs, a woman rushed to her from below, thrusting a recorder at her. Tess stopped and looked at her, her gaze quiet. With everything she knew by now about the man she had married, she understood why he had chosen to marry in the first place. When she had studied the life he lived, she had seen where and when the interest in him had suddenly peaked, when the attention became impossible to deal with, and she knew who was behind it, who had started it all and who had then made sure the unwanted attention wouldn’t die down.

  Cecilia Heart’s eyes glinted. She had her. She’d never before managed to get this close to Tess Blackwell, that damn husband of hers always seemed to be there, hovering over her, keeping anyone unwanted away. But seeing her get out of that fancy car alone, Cecilia knew she had to find a way into the gallery, and she had. It took a bit of a bribe, a lot in fact, but it was worth it.

  “Mrs. Blackwell, how are you enjoying the exhibition?” she asked, inching closer to the woman she finally had cornered.